A/N: Yay for drabbles! This popped into my head during English class one day and wouldn't let me go until I wrote it down. Once again, I prove that I am a shameless angst whore. Oh well, what can ya do? Drop me a review and lemme know what ya think, kay? Much love!

Murphy dreams in color.

He dreams of blood, deep crimson blood, flowing from his fingertips. He dreams of blood filling some unidentifiable white room, staining unidentifiable white walls, drowning unidentifiable people. Innocent people. Women, children, young men with so much life to live and time cut short because of him, because his hands wield a gun and his heart is for God and Connor alone. Sometimes he dreams that, instead of the innocent drowning in their own blood, he is drowning in the blood of the innocent. He wakes gagging and sputtering and gasping for air, and on more than one occasion, Connor has had to drag him into the bathroom and wipe stray tears from his eyes while he dry heaves into the toilet.

Murphy dreams of blood staining his hands, turning them red and ugly and deformed, perfect for holding an instrument of destruction, unsuitable for the casual touches of affection that he loves so much. Even in his unconscious state, he knows that the blood has not stained only his hands; rather, his soul, his heart, his mind, his very core. The word innocent written in blood across the floor does not only scream of the lives lost, but of his own innocence washed away in a crimson wave, carrying with it the light and warmth in his eyes. With these dreams he wakes up sobbing, pulling himself off the bed and dragging his tired limbs into the bathroom. He turns on the tap, scalding water pouring out of the faucet, and scrubs his hands with rough hotel soap until the stain on his soul is less obvious, or until Connor drags him away from the sink, arm around his shaking shoulders and kissing his hands until Murphy believes he is pure enough to sleep.

Murphy also dreams of flames and damnation. Of fire and brimstone. Of a hell where the souls of the innocent torture him, forcing him to watch the lives of their loved ones who were made to live on without them, wondering why a young man's heart could be so full of hate that he could kill the ones they cared about. And Murphy begs and pleads, tells them that his heart was good, that his work was for God, that he was doing the right thing, but his cries fall on deaf ears. And sometimes when he looks for Connor as a source of comfort, Connor is nowhere to be found. Or sometimes, Connor is with the souls that torture Murphy, his eyes full of hate and his words full of accusation. And Murphy wakes up screaming, screaming until Connor wakes as well and reassures Murphy that he is not in hell, not alone, and certainly not hated. Murphy does not usually go back to sleep on these nights; rather, he lays awake in Connor's arms while his brother rubs his back in slow circles, gripping on to something tangible, something warm and real that loves him and, if given a choice, will never let him go.

Connor, when he sleeps, dreams in black and white.

He dreams a similar dream every time his mind allows him to slip into oblivion. He dreams of faces, faces with no bodies floating around him in a dim haze with coins over their eyes. Some are unidentifiable, likes Murphy's innocent people, some are recognizable as the faces of those they have killed. And through the fog of faces stands Murphy, his brother, his beloved twin, smirking with a familiar twinkle in his eyes. As Connor tries to reach his brother, however, Murphy falls, fear in his eyes, a gasp in his throat, a bullet in his heart. And as Connor looks down towards his fallen angel, he realizes that he is holding the gun.

Connor doesn't like to sleep. He likes to stay awake with the gentle blueish light from the random hotel TV filling the room, pushing Murph's hair away from his eyes, protecting him from the unseen evils that lurk and follow wherever they go. Connor doesn't like to think that, one day, he may not be able to protect Murphy from the evils of the world.

Connor doesn't like to think that, one day, the thing Murphy may need protecting from is him.

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